


Shifting Shadows

by WolffyLuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Attempts at comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27278377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna
Summary: The shadow crept forward. It looked mundane, a patch of half-darkness where furniture blocked the light. But grew in the corner of his eye, individual shadows coalescing into something greater. Not anything darker, he could still see quite clearly what was in the shadow, but large in size.And inching forward.He did his best to ignore it.Celebrimbor has a nightmare, and Annatar tries to be comforting about it.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	Shifting Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/gifts).



The shadow crept forward. It looked mundane, a patch of half-darkness where furniture blocked the light. But grew in the corner of his eye, individual shadows coalescing into something greater. Not anything darker, he could still see quite clearly what was in the shadow, but large in size.

And inching forward.

He did his best to ignore it.

It was just shadow. It was harmless. The back of his neck prickled, and his guts went leaden with awareness that shadows did not grow, but—it was harmless. It had to be. It was just a shadow.

Just a shadow that happened to grow.

He could feel the goosebumps racing across his skin, his heart beat increasing in tempo.

Maybe it was normal, safe, just him being jumpy. But what if it wasn’t. Shadows didn’t grow, and that was wrong, and wrong things could be harmful, and if it touched him—

He didn’t know what it would do. But he knew that, on some basic, animal instinct, that if it touched him, it would be the worst thing possible. Maybe death. Maybe something more. Or maybe, if he was lucky, nothing at all! But something unknown and dangerous.

He stood up from his chair, made awkward and fumbling excuses, and walked away.

At first, he could stay in front of the shadow just by walking at a normal pace, could take his time to navigate around furniture and around people.

The shadow sped up. Incrementally, but perceptibly. Sped up so that he had to walk fast, that he had to plot out the most efficient route out of each room in the palace, that he had to do his best not to break into a run. If people saw him running, they would ask, and he would have to _stop_ to explain, and they wouldn’t understand, and—

He just had to keep walking. Walk briskly, and no one would worry, and eventually the shadow would stop.

It had to, right? It couldn’t grow indefinitely. Nothing could.

He looked around for people he knew well, colleagues, friends, family, whoever was nearest. The people who would understand him, believe him with just a word. Either he could warn them of the danger, or they would look at the evidence and explain that was perfectly safe, and they would be right. And they had to be in here _somewhere_.

He found who wore their hair a similar braids, wore a tunic of the same colour, but as soon as he called out to them and saw their face—they were someone else. Some stranger, who would frown in slight concern about being interrupted by someone who seemed so stressed. Any explanation he had died in his throat, and he would apologise for disturbing them, silly mistake really, no need to worry.

And he would keep walking.

The shadow sped up again.

And now he really had to run. If he kept walking, it would be lapping at his ankles in seconds and—no. Not going to think about that. Just keep moving forward. Keep moving forward until he was safe, until he knew more, until both of those things were true--

But the crowds were thicker here. He had to push and press through them, had to dodge and weave people, refuse to explain as people yelled “Where are going?” “What do you think you are doing?” “Are you alright?”

Just keep running.

Clamber over the chairs that keep getting in your way.

Pick yourself up when you slip on wet ground.

Don’t look behind you.

Keep running and keep running and don’t ever stop, not till the shadow does—

It lapped at his feet. Cold as ice, smelling faintly of seawater. It touched him.

His stomach dropped, like he was falling from a great height, and he waited to find out what would happen to him.

He fell onto his bed with a lurch. He knew that wasn’t what actually happened, but it did not make the sensation feel any less real. His limbs jittered with adrenaline, and he could feel the fast fizz of his blood around his body.

Just a nightmare.

_Lovely._

...no, the sarcasm wasn’t warranted, even if it was only internal. A nightmare was better than the alternative. But still, calm, restful, uninterrupted sleep would have been an even better alternative.

He peeled open his his eyes.

Orange eyes glowed at him in the dark, staring straight at him.

He flinched back, before registering it was Annatar’s face, watching him. “Was that necessary?!”

Annatar blinked at him slowly. “I was concerned.” His hand came up, to gently encircle one wrist, intimate but not confining. “You were making noises in your sleep. I’m not sure that’s meant to happen.”

He looked at Annatar, frowning, and trying to read his expression in the dark. It was as much use as it usually was: none whatsoever. He knew Annatar liked to _act_ like he didn’t know much about elves or humans or dwarves, that he honestly had no clue about what was normal or abnormal, and could you please explain it? Celebrimbor was pretty sure he knew more than he was letting on, little bits of knowledge leaked out when he wasn’t careful, but Celebrimbor didn’t know how much more he knew, how much of it was an act. “If you were that concerned, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“If Irmo had something he needed to get you, I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” he said, immediately dropping any pretense that he had no idea what was going on “That might be worse for you in the long run.” He squeezed his wrist, a comforting gesture.

“I’m fine,” he said, tongue sticking in his mouth.

“Your heart rate is awful fast.”

“That’s normal,” he said, trying to escape this conversation, any reminders that his heart was trying to take flight and that he wouldn’t be able to get any more sleep until it stopped doing that.

Annatar cocked his head, either legitimately curious or gently mocking him. “For you? For people after nightmares? For all elves in general?”

He didn’t have the brain power to muster a proper response. “I am _fine._ ”

Annatar let go of his wrist, and settled closer to him on the bed. Celebrimbor could feel the change in temperature as Annatar deliberately turned on his endothermic nature. “Would talking about it help?”

He doubted it. Dwelling on it would make it worse, that seemed to be common sense—but he hadn’t tried talking about it.

It could be worth the experiment.

Annatar shifted his head, as if to get his ear closer to his mouth, to hear him better even if it came as just as whisper.

He swallowed thickly, and began. “There was a shadow—”


End file.
